Nefas
by InsaneInk
Summary: Sam might be losing it. They're dirty, these things that cling to him. He wants them gone, but the Nefas tell him they belong to Sam. Is that why they wont they go away? Slight wing!fic.


Spark of the moment fic that is coming back to bite me in the ass. I'm writing this at the bottom and top to let you all know:

**I will ONLY continue this if I get reviews and KNOW that people like it.**

I mean it, I can't and won't continue this for myself. I'll write for others, I like making people happy with my writing. What's the point of writing if you're not going to share? And what's the point of sharing if nobody is going to read?

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They are there. Hiding, just out of the corner of your eye, but still there. The little shadows that follow you and deceive you. When you are doing something wrong, a sin, and you see that flash of movement that makes you turn your head in alarm, that's them. But you always brush it off; make yourself believe it's not there, a figment of your imagination. They are real. Once you see them whether you brush it off or not they cling to you. Literally. Only a few people in the world can see the darkness in people's hearts, or in this case the wrongness they've done in their life. And usually those people are pretty messed up themselves.

Sam can see it. He doesn't know why or how, he just woke up one morning and found he could see the shadows. It was alarming actually. Dean had a pretty good collection of his own plastered on his back. But what scared Sam was how when he turned to look at his own wrongs in the mirror, he saw wings. Big, black, dark as the abyss of space honest-to-god wings. Same color of the shadows, which he had come to call Nefas.

Sam was unsure of the wings. They made him nervous, especially when they moved. After he saw them he could _feel _them, making adjustments when he sat, or lie down. Just about anything he did would make the wings move in some way. He couldn't see what they were doing but he knew, like they weren't just shadows on his back. Like they _belonged._

The third day Sam refused to go outside, Dean got pissed off and actually tried dragging Sam out of the room by his feet. Dean managed to get Sam off of the bed, landing on his ass. Before Sam had a chance to protest Dean had grabbed his ankles and pulled his towards the door. Sam scrabbled at the carpet, tried to grab onto the dresser, anything that would keep him from having to go out.

And just like that the wings reacted. Sam felt them stretch out, all the way to the other wall of the motel room and attach to the wall. The shadow thing was gripping hard, losing its wing shape from stretching, and Dean wasn't moving Sam an inch. Which was pretty weird considering Sam was limp and slacked jawed staring at the black thing that was connecting him to a wall. A black thing that Dean didn't see.

When Dean asked what Sam's problem was, he tried to explain, he really did. But Dean wasn't hearing any of it; the first few words that came out of Sam's mouth had already confused him. So Sam went with the easy approach. He sat Dean down at the little table next to him, and closed his laptop to show he was serious.

"Basically I can see something you can't."

Dean looked skeptical. "And what exactly would that be, Sam?"

Sam blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "The wrong."

Dean blinks, like he is trying to process the two words Sam just said and not pull a face that says 'Okay, my brother is losing it' at the same time. He does it anyway.

"You care to run that by me one more time?"

Sam runs his hand through his hair. Finding sentences that Dean will understand seems to be a hard task to accomplish as of late. Sighing, Sam picks up a piece of paper and a pen, making sure it's black ink.

"Turn around."

It's a crazy idea, and he knows it, but he just feels like he should _do _this. Somewhere inside Sam wonders if the Nefas are helping him. Giving hints. He ignores how much truth that theory holds.

Dean makes another 'You're nuts' face, before reluctantly standing up and turning his back to Sam. He's being amazingly compliant, like there's something on Sam's face that shows how much he needs to explain this thing that's happened.

Sam thinks that everyone has a different pattern. It's possible that people will do the same things as others, but the shadows don't always stick the same way. At least that's what he's hoping, because he really doesn't want to go outside and have to look at a bunch of Nefas glued to people's backs all day. Just looking at Dean's makes him queasy.

Sam looks at Dean's back, studying the pattern stubbornly, he wants his drawing or reading, or whatever the heck he thinks he's doing to be accurate. Then he gets an idea.

"Hey Dean. Think of something."

"Think of what Sammy? All I'm thinking right now is you've gone nuts and I might have to go get some metal institute brochures, and maybe, just maybe I'll be able to end this conversation without you turning into a sulking bitchface who likes to act like an oyster with to much angst."

Dean scratches the back of his head. "That's about it right now."

"Dean, I need you to think of something-" And Sam just can't believe he's saying it, actually egging on Dean's disgusting perverted thoughts that he thinks all the time except for now when Sam actually has to_ encourage_ them."-Dirty."

He finishes the sentence, and feels the question hanging in the air, before it is buried underneath a smart-ass remark, and Sam can't handle that right now so he stabs Dean's dreams of getting yet another joke on Sam's expense.

"Just shut the fuck up Dean. Don't even say it. Just think. Right now you need to think of something dirty or wrong you've done."

Dean's muscles tighten under his white shirt, defiance trying to work its way up. Sam lets out an exasperated sigh, and Dean's shoulders loosen up. He makes it sound like he's only doing for himself, but Dean is letting up for Sam, and Sam is grateful.

"Fine."

That makes Sam feel better just a little bit, a fight was avoided about all of this, which is good because once Sam sees the shadows shifting, moving to create a picture only he can see Sam knows exactly how to shut Dean up.

They move about, and create a scene that is almost comical, if you're sick in the head. Sam draws it tiredly, knowing that Dean will both get a kick out of this and wonder how the hell Sam did it. Suddenly there is this urge, a strong and flowing desire to touch that picture on Dean's back, to touch the Nefas that bleed through Dean's t-shirt like storm clouds.

Sam wants them, all for himself; the darkness will become his and make his own wings stronger. He knows it. He wants them, and something is compelling him, encouraging his fingers to stretch out and snatch the dark ink-like Nefas. So he reaches out to touch, to take it, to be greedy and never let Dean have it back and Sam is seconds from doing just that before he realizes something else.

The Nefas may be something else when they aren't on you, but once they attach they become a part of that person. If he takes them he will hurt the person they belong to. They are the memories. You can't take memories. Even if they are only of bad things.

It makes Sam sick to think he has so many bad memories that he's got a full on pair of wings, and instantly he can't stand himself. He hurriedly finishes the drawing, and it's not helping that it's a picture of Dean banging some woman while her husband is walking through the bedroom door, and he thanks whatever deity that's listening that a sheet covers them. Sam doesn't know why he knows what is going on in the drawing or why he know the names. He just does.

"This is Felicia and her husband Ike isn't it?" Sam doesn't need to ask the question; it's something he is sure of. He just does to make sure Dean gets his point. Dean whirls around, wide eyed and a little flushed. He probably thinks Sam's read his mind or something.

Sam just stands, he's so tired and so sick of himself and disgusted he just wants to lie down and sleep. Sleep until it actually hurts to keep on sleeping. If that's possible. He takes his sketch and shoves it into Dean's hands, mumbling a worn out good night on his way to the bed.

Sam instantly falls asleep, thankful that it is a dreamless one.

Dean is stands by the tiny motel table, taking turns staring down at Sam and the drawing depicting his escapade. He remembers Felicia, her bouncing brown hair and soft chocolate eyes. She was wary of him at first, but not completely unwilling to take him home with her. It was the smile he perfected when he was thirteen that sealed the deal. He also remembers Ike, coming home to that, just as they finished. He wasn't outraged, or angry. He just looked sorrowful; a man who had been there before and hoped he would never have to be again.

Dean eventually sets the sketch down on the table, but gently, like it will attack him at some point or another. He pulls on a pair of pants over his boxers, a jacket over his shirt and opens the motel room door, shielding his eyes from the bright midday sun as he walks to the nearest bar, afterthoughts about how Sammy got so good at drawing.

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**I will ONLY continue this if I get reviews and KNOW that people like it. So R&R please~**


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